Wuthering Heights

evidently regarded what she had heard as every syllable true.

The master had retired to rest before we came in. Cathy stole to his
room to inquire how he was; he had fallen asleep. She returned, and
asked me to sit with her in the library. We took our tea together; and
afterwards she lay down on the rug, and told me not to talk, for she
was weary. I got a book, and pretended to read. As soon as she supposed
me absorbed in my occupation, she recommenced her silent weeping: it
appeared, at present, her favourite diversion. I suffered her to enjoy
it a while; then I expostulated: deriding and ridiculing all Mr.
Heathcliff’s assertions about his son, as if I were certain she would
coincide. Alas! I hadn’t skill to counteract the effect his account had
produced: it was just what he intended.

“You may be right, Ellen,” she answered; “but I shall never feel at
ease till I know. And I must tell Linton it is not my fault that I
don’t write, and convince him that I shall not change.”

What use were anger and protestations against her silly credulity? We
parted that night—hostile; but next day beheld me on the road to
Wuthering Heights, by the side of my wilful young mistress’s pony. I